Tergum Rursus
by razzle-dazzle-me
Summary: AU His world fallen to irreparable depths, Harry is granted a second chance to set it right. Timetravel, Harry adopts Harry.
1. Chapter One: Irrevocable

_Summary: (AU) His world fallen to irreparable depths, Harry is granted a second chance to set it right. Timetravel, Harry adopts Harry. _

_No slash. _

_Disclaimer: I own nothing. Duh. _

_Italics indicate a change in tense, emphasis or thought. _

… … …

**Tergum Rursus**

**Chapter One: Irrevocable**

… … …

Inhale, exhale.

Smoke coiled up from the cigarette, twisting through the heavy air, weaving spiral patterns and structures.

He sat, subdued, crossed legged under the glossy kitchen window, perched awkwardly next to a withering hydrangea bush. Bored, his wand drew mysterious pictures in the wet gritty dirt, mind racing between explorative tracks, calculating plots and subjecting illustrious plans. Time stumbled on, carefully, meticulously monitored. Inhale, exhale. In and out. The butt stubbed down next to his booted foot, bringing the small mountain one more. Headlights flashed in the distance, his ear perked to the sound -

Tires, coasting sleekly down slippery sheets of gravel. Slowing, stopping - a pause - and reverse.

Break lights glared red through the foliage of number four's front garden.

Vernon Dursley had arrived home at last.

Harry grinned nastily.

Paradox be damned. The worldly phenomenon of time-travel could go fuck itself.

… … …

_"You've spoiled the brat rotten."_

_"Come now, Bellatrix, darling - aren't I allowed to indulge _myself_ a little?"_

… … …

2000

… … …

The end of the world drew near in a sea of cold dreary black, tainted crimson red and _Avada Kedavra_ green.

Justice they embodied. Morals they forgot. And vengeance they cried, they fought for, they died for. There's no need for words, for parting gestures or frivolous touch. Soon all would be together again, united, a band of brothers and sisters and parents and lovers. Determination, stubbornness, faith; an unlikely righteousness that said the impossible was not so impossible, that a young hero might win, that Light might yet not be so misplaced, so lost, so extinct.

It was October 31st, All Hallows Eve. That night the British Ministry would fall. By daybreak the world would be no more.

Inevitable. Unavoidable.

_Irrevocable. _

And the Ministry of Magic sobbed, strained on the clips, the brink of finale.

"It's a trap - a bloody trap!"

"We should never have come here."

The glare was accusing. Harry shrugged it aside.

His fault? It probably was, he wouldn't deny it - he didn't particularly care.

"Let's go, then."

And they made chase.

There were four beside him. Then three. Two. One.

And Harry was alone, the last. Always the damned last.

They were closing in around him.

Harry ran.

He reached a hall, a door. It was locked. Curses flew by, rebounding from the stone walls, crashing past the chasers and the chased. Identities meshed, known unrecognized, friends fighting friends. Chaos, destruction. The ceiling began to cave in, dust and rubble obscuring Harry's vision.

Death clung like a thick suffocated mist, pungent in the air, clouding reality in hazy perceptions.

For a long time he cannot move, cannot think, cannot recollect where he is or what he should have been doing.

And somewhere, someone, allows him the moments rest.

A glaring second later and the peace had left, had run, had fled. A Death Eater, and another and another. They came in swarms, traveled in flocks, transgressed without mercy and felt no inclination to preserve in dignity, pride.

But they were no match for him; the Equal, the Chosen. In an elitist - unnatural, even - league of his own. Harry Potter flicked his wand and the crowd became half, dark robes ruined with the remnants of those less fortunate, slower than they. Harry need not the spell words they spoke, the crutches they could not wield without - power was his forte, a vast matter he carried and served in plenty, in ease.

But still they came, from orders they dare not refuse or rebuke, and they went down to the beck of his will, to the call of his wand. Foolish and ignorant, suicide.

Death's servants.

Harry sent them to Hell.

Then he was up again, running, without a conscious thought. Back again to the entrance chamber of the Department of Mysteries, the only way he knew out, and there Harry paused, leant against a dizzying wall of darkness, reconsidering his hasty retreat. The circular room began to move, to revolve his confusion, lit only by the pale blue flicker of flaming light in brackets strung periodically along the curved wall. The lightening bolt scar on Harry's forehead quivered, straining his concentration, teasing his awareness.

He wasn't quite sure if he'd decided upon anything, but it was too late then, a choice he was never meant to make - fate pulled him on, dictating, manipulating. Cheating, lying, not following by any set of rules - destiny had never laid a claim to be fair nor kind. Harry felt rather than asked his body turn back, back to the massacre, back undeniably to his own brutal demise.

Picking a door for chance, for his fickly reliable mate 'luck', Harry went on in his search. On and on and on. The Death Eater's fell about his wake, parting a deep ocean of hot blood and steely guts.

He passed bassinets of tentacled brains.

The Hall of Prophecies.

He left the damned archway in a puddle of grime, the veil a large knot of torn, broken thread.

But then Harry paused, in a room unknown, realizing just then what it was that he sought.

The knowledge brought no comfort, no solace, no linger of a warm caress.

And pure vehement hatred filled him, pumping through his veins, empowering his purpose, his being. Harry killed and killed and killed a dozen more, in an uncontrollable, unforgiving rage. It seemed then that anything was doable, that he was then capable of an endless everything, that nothing had a premise of the audacity to be out of his reach.

He wanted revenge.

He wanted Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort.

He wanted death, and those that had left him.

The Death Eater's never stood a chance. At two hundred and seventy seven, Harry lost count.

Finishing with one room he moved on to another, bringing the number of Death Eater's spiraling down and down. Soon, eventually, as only the ugly monotony of time could draw, Voldemort would be reached - and Harry was as ardent and ready as he'd ever been, ever would be.

Stalking casually into the midst of a larger gathering was where Harry found them, those that marked how close he was now to the end, to their gloriously odious Master -

The Inner Circle.

His eyes struck Bellatrix Lestrange, a chord of loathing, of stolen loss. If there was ever a worthy opponent it would be her, and Harry didn't want her dead so fast, that easily; she was all he had left to duel, really, as far and long as Voldemort refused to fight him. And all he had _was_ to fight, now, then and ever - and if he didn't have that then there really was nothing. A filtered _Crucio_ from Harry and she shrieked, fell, writhed on the cold stone floor. He let himself enjoy the sight, the guilty pleasure swooning.

Then _Avada Kedavra_ and the greasy bastard's down. Harry's laugh was bitter, resentful - bordering malicious.

A small battle wore on, Harry acting without a thought, intent or justification. He was interrupted only when a grating voice permeated his mind, forcing back his weaker shields, past the connection that brewed between them -

_Harry, Harry. What are you doing? _

"What does it bloody well look like, Tom?" Harry laughed.

Swish, flick - another dozen dead.

Voldemort hissed.

_Single-handedly, Potter? Have your fun, then. It's useless. This is nothing, nothing to the sheer amount of followers I amass. You could not comprehend to dent my army if you fought all nights length. _

"Face me, then. Come out from under your fucking bed and do your worst - I dare you."

The mirth was cruel. But whom from? Either, both?

_Now that's arrogant even for you. _

"At any means, at any cost, Riddle. I _will_ bring you down," Harry snarled.

And then Harry's vision went black to an ominous, tangible nothing. Agony pierced through his scar.

He swayed, distracted -

Thirty varying curses hit him at the pointblank range, throwing Harry across the room. His fractured body collided hard with the wall opposite, falling in a cursed broken heap, bones crunched and snapped, blood leaking. Angrily Harry reached a hand up, long filthy fingers searching for a hold on something, anything, to help him.

They touched a cool, smooth, circular surface - a handle.

He struggled up, curses flying over his head, turning into the door and pushing the handle downward, rolling back into the other room. The door slammed shut behind him. Harry twisted on his heel, eager not to loose a moment of his lent time, softly whispering layers upon layers of shrouding, infiltrated wards. He leant back against the door, feeling the vibrations of spell-fire tear at the carelessly woven threads of the wards he had just erected.

It wouldn't last long.

Harry grinned, turning cautiously, looking unquestioningly for another escape. But there were no windows, no furniture, no anything to mark the room, _the trap_, he had unintentionally locked himself into - just four bare walls, one bare ceiling, a severely bloodstained carpet - and a strangled body crumpled in the center. The only door was the one Harry had entered from.

There was no escape. No way out.

Harry ground his molars together hard, annoyed, glaring at the body - the body that was, strangely, somehow _moving_. Harry took a small curious step forward, craning his neck to snatch a better look at the man's face. It couldn't be -

"Ollivander? Is that you, Sir?"

The man stirred, moaning softly. A trickle of blood ran down the side of his grazed, stubbed chin.

Not much could surprise him anymore, Harry had thought, looking down at the wand-smith whom lay sprawled so unceremoniously in a heap of ancient, tattered robes. No-one had seen or heard a shadow, a whisper of the wizard for years.

The old man opened one bleary moonlike eye, widening in fear, in dread, whimpering at the sight of him.

Harry grinned, pulling the white skulled mask up from his face, ruffling his tangle of scruffy black hair, and throwing it to the ground. There was no need for it then, anyhow.

The game was over.

_He had already lost. _

Ollivander's eyes widened in recognition, surprise, a roaring - contagiously - vulnerable hope. He made another futile noise, words refusing to tumble from his thin, stretched lips coherently.

The door behind Harry cracked, trundles of smoke coiling in from the hinges.

Harry approached the old wand-maker carefully, wearily, wincing away the pain in his chest, boots squelching rhythmically on the cold, soaked floor. He stopped a good - safe - foot away, crouching down to the other's level on his knee.

Ollivander was a right terrible sight, limbs hanging together by threads of spent flesh, misused muscle stretched and strained taught. His eyes were unblinking, rolling back into his lolling head. Half his graying hair had been ripped out from the scalp, likely of his own doing, and three clawing fingers were notably amiss. Below the battered cloak he was naked, skin showered in painful weltered shreds.

He was beyond any mess Harry could clean - death would come with longing and rejoice, surely, then such a state to be lived in. Euthanasia. Debatable opinion, really. Harry's wand twitched in his sweaty palm.

"Harry Potter, is it then?" Ollivander began, startling Harry that he was even fit enough to speak. His voice was hollow, withered, vague - he grinned, explaining, showing two rows of gummy space where his yellowed teeth had once been held. "Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches. Nice and subtle."

"Are you alright, Ollivander?" Harry asked softly.

It was hideously obvious that he was not.

Ollivander chuckled, which brought on a horrid, wrenching bought of labored, choking gasps.

"Of course not, Mr Potter. I'm going to die, and soon too, I've no doubt. But I've been waiting - waiting for you."

Harry nodded politely, spinning his wand between long fidgety fingers, eyes locked impatiently back to the door - waiting, silently, for the enemy to break and come - come to his blood stained hands, to his vengeance, to meet their lower end. The door began to purr, to hiss, the wards stretching too thin and too far.

"Have you a knife, my boy?"

Again Harry nodded.

"Give it to me."

"What?" Harry started. He must have misheard. "Why? What do you possibly hope to do with it?"

"Give it to me," Ollivander repeated fanatically, commanding, his voice verging on hysterical need, want, reaching beyond any simple form of desire.

Harry raised an eyebrow, but he didn't need much convincing - he couldn't really bring himself to feel any concern, then, on the frigid high that he was. "Fine," he muttered, reaching into a pocket of his own battered robes, drawing forth a plain stained blade.

The older man took it in a trembling hand, rasping, delirious and apprehensive and frightful. His eyes alighted with crazed insanity, intellect long driven from his seared, tortured mind. He smiled his empty smile, pain temporarily forgotten, forgiven, and his empty eyes glazed, empty shrunken elbow bent, empty breaths hitched.

Harry closed his eyes, listening to Ollivander's heaved, abrasive struggles, and the shouts coming from the doorway, where the Death Eater's continued their attack with reinstated, relentless vigor. He wondered how and why the wand-smith had come to be there in the Ministry of all the outlandish places.

He didn't realize, opening his bleary sight again, what the older man was doing before it was too late to stop him.

"Ollivander, what the fuck!"

The wand-maker held both shaking hands to the lid of his left eye, the knife slicing down from the socket along the prominent curve of his cheekbone. Parched skin flopped down, opening up the eye socket, blood pouring from the wizard's face, neatly flooding cracks and crevices, frown lines and weathered wrinkles.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Harry cried in horror, in prominent disgust and repulsion, holding his wand above Ollivander.

Ollivander laughed, his voice a void, barren moon-like eyes watching Harry with such provoking intensity he shuddered, gripping his wand tighter, demanding an answer, a meaning to the madness. Harry's blade fell from the wand-maker's hand, dropping soundlessly to the floor.

Behind them the door shook, rattling unnoticed.

"Ollivander," Harry repeated. "What the bloody hell did you do that for?"

"Don't you see, Mr Potter? They wanted it, _he_ wanted it, and that's why they came after me," Ollivander ginned his gummy gaping hole. "_But I hid it_ - for you, Mr Potter. And for all they tried they could never find it, I would never tell them." He laughed triumphantly, gagging, choking, wheezing on his own spilt blood.

"But what, Ollivander?" Harry asked, his attention - for that moment - temporarily bought. "What were they after?"

He'd heard the rumors, yes, of what Ollivander was said to have been experimenting with -

The older wizard didn't answer, instead raising a trembling hand again over his poor contorted eye, gently teasing the flaps of skin cut away by the knife apart. Harry froze, transfixed, unable and unsure of what to do, whether to stop him, but before he could come to any semblance of a decision Ollivander had acted again.

Biting down on his tongue as hard as he could manage, Ollivander pushed two stubby fingers behind the eyeball, leveling, levering it forward, out, away from his socket. Rough, jagged nails scraped, searching, seeking what had been hidden in such a disgusting, ingenious plight. They sought. They found. Ollivander's left moon eye, dangling clear out of it's home, where it belonged, where it should always have remained, dripped and sunk and broke - leaking, dribbling, running away into a thick, off-white jelly ooze.

But Ollivander cared not for hurt, for pain, holding a sickly sticky object out in his shaking palm, his offering to Harry.

Outside the white walled room Lord Voldemort's Death Eaters breached the stalemate, breaking through the wards, and the door crashed in, forced from its archway.

For one moment time stopped, fate and fatality fighting for a lost cause - a lingering, lurking belief.

Ten, twenty, thirty nine black-robed white-masked foes bore down, tumbling into the room, forming a tight circle to surround the two other wizards. Harry looked back to Ollivander, whom gaily plummeted through his last grating breaths of life, fulfilled, and grabbed the object from his outstretched hand, hastily casting one last shield about them.

"What is it? Ollivander? What does it do?"

The wand-smith croaked, blood seeping from every pore, every crack on his feeble, convulsing body. Frown lines creased his forehead, shadowing his memory, and he dithering on absurdity, blathered words. "Tergum rursus. Tergum rursus. Tergum rursus."

Thirteen _Crucio_'s, thirteen blasts, thirteen _Avada Kedavra_'s - all aimed at one, together, colliding centrally through the air, shaking and tearing and breaking Harry's shield. Harry had his wand raised high, his focus tied to the Death Eaters, ready to bring the skirmish to a quick, bloody end.

And the small marble-like sickle sized orb - the time-turner - cradled in Harry's sweaty hand buzzed, spinning, disregarding pasts and rewriting history.

_Tergum rursus. Tergum rursus. Tergum rursus._

Thirty nine Death Eaters were thrown down to the blood soaked carpet, dazed.

Ollivander died.

And Harry Potter disappeared with a loud crack and a blinding flash.

… … …

All Harry could see around him was darkness, turning and twisting and pulling him down … down … down. His eyes burned, his fingertips tingled, his gut wrenched traitorously. Colours, textures, patterns, shapes, lines. _Tergum rursus. Tergum rursus. Tergum rursus. _His ears rang, his sight blurred, bile rose in his throat and any feeling that was left in his numbing limbs ceased. _Tergum rursus. Tergum rursus. Tergum rursus. _

Harry Potter dropped from the sky, landing outside a green grassed, primed and proper, golden embossed number four Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.

The summer sun shone brightly upon the street, encompassing the tidy neighborhood. Outside number four a television could be heard, shouting from inside of the comfortably squished living room. The shiny company car that usually parked neatly in the driveway was missing, Vernon Dursley busy at work. A younger Petunia Dursley could be seen through the kitchen window, feeding a screaming Dudley his lunch of sugar-sprinkled mashed banana. A five year old Harry, unattended, sat alone by the kitchen sink, casting weary eyes at his Aunt and rebelliously, rashly, breaking his cousin's favorite crayon.

And an older war-torn Harry, lying on his back in the middle of the damp garden bed, listening to the sounds inside of the house with hungrily disbelieving ears, could only note reproachfully that his Aunt Petunia's hydrangea bush was indeed flourishing.

It was October 31st, All Hallows Eve, 1985.

… … …

_"There's an extend, somewhere, to which loving oneself must be drawn."_

_He sneered. She laughed. _

… … …

He'd sat there half the day, surreal to the new and frightening environment, and had made but one decision to improve such a wholly fanciful predicament to which he had landed - Harry had to simply get himself the hell out of there - and that meant _both_ of himself.

A little fun - or well deserved vengeance, even - along the way couldn't hurt. Well, it wouldn't hurt _him_, that is.

He waited five minutes - for the beefy man to heave himself from the rising car, collect his briefcase, fumble impatiently for the house keys in his large jacket pocket and let himself on inside. Chatter echoed from the hall, to the kitchen, to the dining room. Petunia laughed her horsey hack, the bell timer on the stove began to ring shrilly, and Dudley signaled his conscious presence from a nap with the emanating wails of a whale.

Harry stood, stretching his legs, stuffing the crumpled box of fags back into the deeper reaches of his robe.

Harry moved around the bush, along the front garden path, past the bend of the hedge and up the small step to the front door. Looking skyward, briefly, a half moon gazed down. It smiled, encouraging, edging him on.

There were no stars to be of witness.

Harry raised a bloodthirsty fist, allowed a moments hesitation and knocked loudly, thumping on the flimsy paneled wood. He held his breath and all went stiflingly quiet.

Then cutlery was brought crashing down - a muffled grumble - pounding footsteps.

Harry placed his thumb over the eyehole. The door swung open, stretched from its creaking hinges.

And Harry Potter looked down upon his Uncle for the first time in three bloody, battle-weary years.

Vernon wasted precious seconds appraising him. Beady eyes skittered up from his boots, to his robes, to the wand clenched firmly in his dirty hand. _Avada Kedavra _eyes met watery blue, and Vernon Dursley swallowed nervously, guiltily. He thought he might recognize the younger man before him, from somewhere, perhaps if - but then, that couldn't be right, could it?

"What do you lot want?" he barked aggressively, as quietly as his booming voice could manage, demure not at all leaning anywhere near the borders of politeness whilst his small eyes darted uneasily down the street to make sure no-one was watching.

Harry didn't really feel they deserved an explanation - he certainly couldn't be fucked giving them one, anyway - not that they'd believe him. "Let me in." _Or I'll simply make you, and that wouldn't be pleasant at all - for you. _

"No! I certainly wont!"

Spit flew out from Vernon's mouth, speckling Harry's robes.

Harry considered warning him, audibly, but thought better of it.

An _Imperio_ later and his Uncle was much more obliging.

Inside of the house, the damned 'home' that reminded him solely of sixteen years spiteful suffering and neglect, Harry sent Vernon directly back to the dining room. _Silencio_ and he needn't worry about the annoyingly inquisitive neighbors hearing anything they could deem suspicious, or any small means to warrant further investigation. Harry followed, trailing his Uncle's heavy footfalls, trying not to look about the small tidy rooms they past, or the ambiguous cupboard under the stairs. He couldn't really help it, though.

In the dining room Vernon sat back in his chair at the head of the table. Dudley sat opposite him in a highchair, Petunia between the two - and little Harry on the floor, his own smaller plate haphazardly balanced on his lap.

Seeing him then, looking at them so, Petunia _shrieked_.

"Who are you!" she cried, eyes wide with fear.

Harry laughed - acrimonious, abhorrent.

He didn't hate them; not really, not exactly. Maybe sometimes. But they had it coming to them, they really did - and whether it be now from him or another twelve years down the wayward future by threat of Lord Voldemort himself, Harry didn't feel it mattered, really, inevitable as it was.

They should pay for what they'd done, for the miserable way they had squandered his childhood - it was only _right_.

Right?

Nothing messy, nothing that'd take too long. He wouldn't keep them suffering … that much.

Lightening cracked though the dark sky outside, rain falling down, pattering on the rooftop.

The _Crucio_ was held on Vernon for but a minute, maybe more, which he should have been thankful for, Harry thought. Petunia screamed and screamed - louder even than Vernon - and closed the picture before her with an unsteady hand clamping over her streaming eyes. Dudley watched, morbidly fascinated. The younger Harry tried not to laugh.

The elder Harry grew tired soon of his Aunt's pitched cries, grating terribly on his nerves as they did, as he had known that they would, and deftly cast an _Avada Kedavra _her way.

Fast, neat - relatively painless.

An acid jet of green and she fell to the ground, wetting herself. Dead on impact.

Releasing Vernon from the torturous pain of the _Crucatious_, Harry twirled his wand, waiting for the reality of the situation to sink into his Uncle's mind, for the comprehension of a lifetimes worth of sins he had dealt and that now were being paid for, heavily.

And _bam!_

Vernon had combusted, his body turned inside-out.

Dudley gurgled hungrily, a coil of intestine draped over his pudgy shoulder.

Harry reached a hand inside of his robes, bringing out a camera. He thought the image would make a lovely wall hanging.

It was over as quick as it had taken Harry to knock on the door, and quicker still was the refreshing charm he next cast, to still the reek his Aunt and Uncle had rudely left in their departure.

He turned lastly to his rotund cousin, for all intents and purposes set to explode the wretched boy to oblivion, to splatter his minimal brains on the ceiling and watch them dangle, sway from the crystal chandelier - but somehow, something, made him pause, reconsider. Not to one so young, one still blanketed in the naiveté of innocence, he couldn't - he couldn't kill a child. Not like that. A smirk twisted his lips, his brow furrowed, and Harry approached Dudley with slow, contemplative steps.

Reaching the highchair he regarded Dudley one final time. The boy contorted his squashed piggy face, reached a chubby hand towards his plate and grabbed a messy handful of peas, threatening to hurl the content right at Harry.

Not fast enough, though. Never fast enough was the sluggish Dudley.

A swish, flick, twist - and where his cousin had sat, there was now a fat squealing piglet.

Five year old Harry clapped his hands, applauding.

The older Harry approached himself carefully, wondering when the last time was that he'd had such an appreciative audience, quite happy for the acknowledgment to his good-doings, and he knelt solemnly before the five year old. They eyed each other, both equally weary, and for a moment the older Harry thought he might be rejected by his younger self, but then it seemed he was more desperate even back then than he had thought - and the smaller boy reached his arms up, wanting to be held.

Harry obliged readily, lifting the small child in an awkward embrace. He had little experience or patience with those so young - but, he figured, he would learn. He'd have to learn. Patting himself, his younger self, on the back in what he supposed would have been comforting, Harry was struck by a last idea.

Gently he placed the five year old on the kitchen table, next to the platter of sizzling roast pork. Harry grabbed a grated-edged knife, cut a sizable gash on his forearm, transfigured the plate of potatoes into a strangled, mutated replica of his younger self, and dribbled his own blood over the carbohydrate corpse.

A glossing charm to make any viewer of the body less skeptical, less inquisitive - more liable to perform the most minimal tests. And a final evidence sieve, so that any residue that may be connected back to him was lifted and irreparably swept away.

Then he had the child in his arms again, turning swiftly on his heel, getting out of that twice be-damned house as fast as he could.

The calendar hanging from the ridiculously monstrous refrigerator in the kitchen said that it was the year 1985 - Sirius's mother would have recently past. Outside of number four Harry stopped, tightening his hold on his younger self.

"Are you alright?" he asked the boy.

Little Harry shook his head, no.

"Don't worry, now," Harry assured himself. "I mean you no harm."

The other didn't look so convinced.

" - I've never been into the whole angsty self-hurt," Harry went on to explain.

With a crack they apparated to twelve Grimmauld Place.

The wards surrounding the old house whined, indignant to the presence of two so wholly unfamiliar. For one horrible second Harry thought they may not be able to get in, that the ties Harry had held there before no longer existed in anything but feeble memory - then, abrasively, he opened his eyes and there they were - standing right before the unwelcoming front door, rain plummeting down to soak through their clothes.

Little Harry shivered in his older self's hold, dizzy and frightened. He didn't dare to speak, though he desperately wanted to - _never ask questions _rang warningly in his ear drums, beating their ominous threat

The big dark house standing grandly before them did nothing to quell the younger boy's fears, either.

The Noble and Most Ancient House was in better condition than the older Harry had ever known it to be. The exterior was not yet rotting, the windows not quite so smothered in grime. Harry spared a quick glance to either muggle house beside them, then turned back to the black-painted door. He reached out to touch the silver knocker, twisted into the shape of a serpent, and told the house in parseltongue to let him in - and let them in it did, the front door quickly yielding.

Harry grasped more firmly onto the squirming boy wrapped in his arms, entering the dank house with his wand held steadily before them. From the ground floor, hid neatly behind an already moldy and moth-eaten curtain, a vast freshly painted portrait of Sirius' mother started up, as soon as they'd set foot past the threshold - but Harry was ready, a spell already half way off his tongue.

_"Who is that, eh? Filth! - " _

A stream of light slid from Harry's wandtip, following the plaintive shriek of her voice. It was the last words the portrait would ever cry.

Harry, cursing, rather strongly doubted anyone would miss her.

He paused in the first dusty corridor, just outside of the entrance hall, placing his younger self down to find his own feet. He wondered fleetingly what the boy was thinking, and he didn't have to wait long for an answer, or a question, really.

"Why did you rescue me?" asked the small, intimidated voice.

Harry looked down, trying to force a smile on his lips. _Introductions first._ "I'm your Uncle Harry," he stated firmly, as if that were the only explanation required, but - much to his relief - it seemed it was enough for the boy, for the time being, anyway.

"I'm Harry too!" came the strangely excitable exclamation.

"Yes, I know - but not for long, I think. We'll decide on a better name for you later."

Child-Harry regarded him skeptically, and the older Harry paused, pondering if he could trust himself at that age, honestly - but those big green eyes were so scarred, so happy, and Harry couldn't think of anyone ever looking at him with such admiration, such unquestionable loyalty and unassuming_ love_ - "You can choose it, whatever you fancy."

The boy looked hopeful. "Am I going to live with you now? Forever?"

Harry nodded. "For as long as you like."

Child-Harry was positively delighted, enthralled at such a prospect.

"And are we going to live _here_?"

Harry shrugged. "What do you think? Do you like it?"

He didn't suppose though that anyone could really like the house in the state that it was in then - but, regardless, child-Harry nodded enthusiastically, yes. Anything would have been better than living with the Dursley's, Harry supposed - and Merlin forbid he'd ever be in such a horrid situation to choose, though, he'd willingly share a roof with Grawp over them, any day.

"Good. I'm glad."

Harry took his younger self's hand, leading the way to the kitchen down in the basement, along dark, rough hewn-walls. The room was cold and still - long uninhabited.

After a quick peek in the sparsely empty cupboards - Kreacher's empty, filthy bed beneath the empty water tank - and the unsurprisingly empty pantry, Harry sat himself down opposite his younger counterpart at the large table, a jumble of the many assorted chairs separating them. He grinned, pretended that he wasn't really hungry, pretending that he hadn't intended to fetch them some food, because there was nothing there, and he was so tired - he didn't want disappointment to edge the beginning of their relationship - one which, Harry was sure, would be long lived, predictably respected, and dually endeavored to the benefit of each - that being most important, of course.

So they sat in silence, staring at each other, each stubbornly waiting for the other to start.

But neither could quite work out where to begin, whether it lie within the chaotic jumble of disorganized questions or far too complicated answers to proceed them, but then -

"INTRUDERS! THEIFS! MUDBLOOD SCUM!"

Harry scowled, looking back to the door - where Kreacher stood proudly, hands on his hips, rags shaking in unrestrained fury.

The boy Harry jumped, thunderstruck, gaping at the house-elf.

"Kreacher, go. Now."

The ratty elf spluttered, fighting the order.

"_Leave us_," Harry snarled.

The house-elf tried not to obey, struggling with himself and the oaths that tied him to the older Harry's reining words. Harry, knowing the house had bent to let him entry, figured so would the elf, despite that which had not yet even come to pass. Kreacher cracked his gnarled knuckles, doubtful to take leave, loathing Harry then as much as his real master Sirius, the last of the Noble and Ancient Black line, rotting away uselessly in Azkaban. It didn't really make much sense to him at all, but the elf clicked his fingers, resigned to that he just _had_ to do what he'd been told, spat on the grubby floor, and left with an angry _crack_.

"What was_ that_?" younger Harry asked, wrinkling his small nose with distaste.

"That's Kreacher, he's our house-elf." Harry sighed, just then realizing what terrible conversations lay so dauntingly long overdue. "Treat him as you wish, but please trust me when I say he's dirt. Harry - there's _so much_ I need to tell you."

The boy looked up at him, emerald meeting emerald.

"Did you know my parents?" he asked.

"Er - no. Not really. But I know of them," Harry said. "And they did _not_ die in a car crash, for starters."

"They didn't?" child-Harry frowned.

"No."

Harry drew his wand from his pocket, placing it gently on the table between them.

The younger Harry gulped. _This explained it, then._ "Are - are you a magician?"

"No, Harry." Harry smiled. "You're a wizard - and a damn fine one if I do say so."

The boy blinked, once, twice.

And Harry closed his eyes, praying for the patience that did not often grace him, knowing what a long, long night he was in for.

… … …

For an abundance of painstakingly exhausted hours Harry tried futilely to find sleep, stretched out on a luxuriously large bed in one of the many guest rooms; but whether it be the screams following from his past, his haunted nightmares and taunting demons, or the penetrating shuffles and sniffs of his lonely child-self in a dusty room next door, sleep adamantly refused to come.

And so Harry lay awake, gazing expectantly up at the unfamiliar ceiling.

And the illustration of a big shaggy grim sat in the forefront of his thoughts, remembering, reminding, grating painfully on his threadbare conscious.

He hadn't planned this, and he didn't particularly want it.

But Harry_ had_ gone back in time and he intended to change it - change and fix and stretch everything he could. He'd give himself, his younger self, the life he had always wanted and dreamed of - and, perhaps, if re-finding and destroying Voldemort's bloody Horcruxes along the way wouldn't be too much trouble, then, all for the better.

But there were other things that he felt inclined to do first, things that took priority.

Harry had to get Sirius - he couldn't leave him there in that hell-hole prison to rot.

And then he'd have fun, the time of his bloody life - and _they would all pay_.

Revenge was sweet, indeed.

… … …

_"I thought Hercules was growing on him."_

_He snorts. "If I just suggest Altair, though _… "

_"Altair?"_

_"Yes. It's the name of a star in the constellation Aquila."_

_She waits, but he needs the prompt. "And?" _

_He hesitates still, unsure. "And it means 'the flyer' in Arabic." _

_She raises a brow. _

_He shrugs, nonchalant. "I like to fly."_

_"Altair Black it is, then. Of the bastard branch." _

_He grins, raising his glass of wine in a toast. _

… … …

On the first of November the world of Witchcraft and Wizardry mourned.

They mourned a Hero, a Savior, a Chosen One that had never known his place in their lives, their hearts, their hopes and dreams and aspirations.

They mourned the death of a small boy-wizard: Harry Potter.

… … …

When the younger Harry awakes he's there with a tray, sitting beside him on his new dusty bed, in his new dusty room.

"Are you hungry?" his Uncle asks.

Little Harry nods - oh, he's _famished_.

He's given a ridiculously large platter of scrambled eggs, sausages, bacon, toast, porridge - and a strange goblet filled with lumpy orange goo he's a little afraid to try. His Uncle Harry only laughs, telling him to eat what he likes, whatever he fancies. He tells Harry that if ever he wants anything he needs only to ask. Harry thinks he might be in Heaven.

It's the first time he has ever had breakfast in bed.

When Harry's finished eating all he can, his Uncle says that he has to go out for a while, that Harry's welcome to come with him if he thinks he'd like. He promises it'll be fun. Little Harry can hardly get cleaned up and dressed fast enough - but then, when he's ready, his Uncle pauses in the doorway, looking down upon him critically. He takes his wand from the weird black dress - like he was wearing before, only this one's not quite so worn nor ragged - and he flicks the smooth, shiny stick - the _wand_ - over Harry's too-large (Dudley sized) clothes.

Harry looks down and sees they've changed; he's wearing a funny black dress thing too.

Harry tells his Uncle he'd like a wand and he'd like to learn.

His Uncle smiles. "Alright," he says. Harry can hardly believe it.

Harry is led down the steep, winding stairs of the creaky old house and back into the kitchen. On the way they pass by a dirty, grubby looking mirror, wherein Harry can just make out his reflection staring back at him - and he has brown hair, murky grey eyes, and the lightening bolt scar that had always resided placidly on his forehead has vanished. His Uncle watches his every move, and tells him the guise is a precaution, that he'll make a proper bond to the Black line later, when they've got Sirius. Harry's not sure what a _precaution_ is, just how they can get this _serious_, or what James Bond has to do with it; but he decides whatever his Uncle says or does is marvelous, and he'll follow and do anything he can to keep him, always.

In the kitchen his Uncle throws a fistful of powder into the fireplace, and he takes Harry in his arms, and they _step right in_ - spinning, spinning, spinning.

It's magic, and it's wonderful, and Harry's in love.

**...pppqqq... **

_A/N: Well, then. There's that. Child-Harry will only last another half chapter (thank Gawd) then we fast-forward nine years to where would have been Harry's fourth year at Hogwarts, and the story really begins in a vague outline of a GoF shelled premises. Thanks for reading ;) Reviews are very much appreciated, as always. An update can be expected … soonish. I think. _

_Translation - 'Tergum rursus' (title) meaning 'back' in latin. Masterful, eh? _

_Happy reviewing! _

_xxoo _


	2. Chapter Two: To Azkaban

_Summary: (AU) His world fallen to irreparable depths, Harry is granted a second chance to set it right. Timetravel, Harry adopts Harry._

_Disclaimer: I don't own it. _

… … …

**Tergum Rursus**

**Chapter Two: To Azkaban**

… … …

I remember many things; trivial, countless, unforgivable. The good, the bad, and the shifty balance in between. I remember a fight and a war and a cause. I remember a_ purpose_; a reason to keep believing, an instinctual _right_. Pride and glory - moral and justice in kind. I remember the friends which love lost. The costly price and the heavy penance.

We were warriors.

We were heroes.

And what are we now?

… … …

_"Did you hear that?" _

_"Hear what?" _

_"I thought _- that! _Right there!"_

… … …

"Bugger."

He was angry again - tired, frustrated, _loathing_. His determination dwindled, his motive in steady decline. There were a hundred other things he'd much rather be doing, sleep reining high above them all.

Harry had never been to the prison of Azkaban before. He didn't know where it was, or where to start looking. Athens, Paris, Belgium - he guessed wildly, lent solely on his initiative to lead. He followed the beckoning taunts of evil, followed with his greatest dread and dire, consummate hate of the hopeless destination. On the third night he thought he might be close. On the seventh he knew he was; near enough to taste its foul stench in the air, hear its haunting whisper tickle his skin, sting in his eyes.

The Island _stunk; _of the damned and the damnable, of blood and carnage and death. Rotting flesh, decayed minds, dispatched spirits.

Harry stood in a small clearing of fog, on the edge of a forest - he wasn't sure precisely where. It was damp and it was _cold_. Looking out through the overlapped gaps of dying, ancient pines, he could just see the bleaker depths of the English Channel; where violent waves pounded the shore and lapped the rocks, and black stormy clouds threatened to break, spill and pour. Harry's magic pulled tersely, warning him away, tying to edge him back where he'd come - and he knew that could only mean one thing, could only be due of one specific purpose.

_That Dementor's were near. _

And, finally, Azkaban was nearer.

His wristwatch ticked past midnight and Harry cursed again, shivering. He kicked a stone, huffed, and continued his prowl of the shoreline, taking care to keep out of view from the beach, searching for any sort of clue that might lead him elsewhere, onward.

He stopped again behind a prickly row of thorns and overripe blackberries, catching another glance into the murky water through the trees. He could see a port then, leading off from the beach below him, and Harry's breath skipped - but the shabby thing had no ties, no lines, no little boats sleeping restfully at the haven like he'd hoped. It was empty.

It was _useless_.

Harry waited there for maybe ten more minutes, glaring hatefully at the icy water and the flaking wooden poles of the pier, before a loud series of _pops_ chose kindly to amend the pitifully frustrated situation. Harry didn't particularly believe in coincidences - but on the off chance one happened in his favor, he wasn't about to pass it up.

Harry spun around, his wand ready, held tightly before him. But they hadn't seen him, were oblivious still to his presence.

_Constant vigilance? Insistent paranoia. _

Standing right behind him in the tiny clearing were four men, cracking their necks and shrugging their shoulders, biting off the ill effects of cross-country apparation. They chatted in plowing grunts of English, licking nauseous wounds and haggling the captive; three guards in the official Azkaban blue hued robes and a lanky figure cowed between them, arms and legs bound magically, bobbing uselessly an inch from the muddy ground. The prisoner was covered from view with an old brown cloak, his face hidden under the hood.

Harry almost laughed - it was _too_ easy. _Far too easy_.

Coincidence? He wasn't so sure. Fate did owe him, after all.

One guard, painted the leader by a large crest over his cold swollen heart, waved his wand theatrically and uttered an identifying spell. Mist leaked out from his wand tip, hovering about the quartet, and then he chanted in another quiet mantra, releasing the knitted wards and safeguards against intruders, wannabe rescuers or by-standing muggles. A clattering bang rang through the air, turning Harry's focus back to the water, where he saw a quaint little boat appear suddenly at the end of the port.

Harry sighed, smiled, and blew hot breath onto his tired hands, warming them.

Then gingerly he stepped out from behind the bed of thorns, silently edging towards the group of wizards, his pulse accelerating.

_Thump. Thump. Thump. _

… … …

1995

… … …

Altair didn't like crowds, and he liked muggle crowds even less.

The summer holidays had drawn in at last to a frazzled end, though the temperature remained hot, stiff and sweltering. Kings Cross Station was packed, as it always was on September first. Non-magical and wizarding folk alike pushed and fought their way by, throwing glares and spiting curses, hurrying off in every direction. A group of teenagers were surrounded in dizzying puffs of smoke, a snotty little girl wiped her fingers on a handrail, a missionary of redheads hopped past causing small resonating tremors, and an old Auror watched it all from behind his ruffled newspaper, growling as he was spotted.

Altair ignored the Auror and followed the cluster of red-heads suspiciously, not liking the shabby look of them at all; watching as the army slowly and mysteriously vanished two by two. He could never quite catch where the hell or how they disappeared, though, and the intrigue shitted him.

"Uhuh, this is it!"

Harry turned around in front of Altair, pointing straight ahead of them towards the barrier between platforms nine and ten, as if this should be of some great significance to him. Altair grunted, looking away from his Uncle and pretending they weren't together, that he didn't know him. People around them were blatantly staring at the abnormality of his large trunk, their strange attire, and Harry's jubilantly carrying voice.

"Do you _have_ to point, Harry?" Altair asked him tiredly.

Harry just grinned, batting at his shoulder. "Hurry up, it's right over here."

And, looking on, they were heading towards the damn redheads, or what was left of them - _fantastic_.

"Who are they?" Altair asked quietly, as Harry led the way. They had to be going on to Hogwarts too, there was no doubt of that.

"You know them," Harry said, lowering his voice further. "I've told you all about the Weasley's - "

"_They _are the wonderful Weasleys?" Altair wasn't impressed - from his Uncle's description he'd envisioned them to be ... well ... the exact opposite of what it appeared they were, really. Except for that disgraceful hair.

"See that one?"

Harry was pointing again.

"_Yes_, and will you _please_ stop - "

"That's Ron! You'll be great friends, I'm sure."

"Yeah. Right." Altair highly doubted it.

"He'll only be in fifth year, though." Harry gave him that look - the weary one, like he figured he knew Altair better then he knew himself, as if he knew all the wayward twists of the path heading out before him. "You will _try_ to fit in, wont you Altair?"

"Yeah, right," Altair said again.

Harry rolled his eyes.

When they reached the Weasels, as was the name Altair thought suited them much better, he realized how they had been vanishing so - the army was simply waltzing straight between the barriers. The mother Weasel, Altair guessed, turned around to greet them. Harry exchanged a warm smile and Altair sneered unpleasantly.

Then they were gone, and it was only Harry and himself still left standing there.

"Please, Altair," Harry began - and by this point Altair had already tuned out. "Do _try_ to play nice with the other children, for once. Ok? Will you do that for me?"

Altair nodded, yawned, and the two strolled on, heading right into the barrier. Altair blinked as they collided with the solid brick, and then - just as suddenly - they were there. Platform Nine-And-Three-Quarters was near enough in likeness to the muggle ones before it, for only a few deviations. The great numbers of witches and wizards clamoring about, for one, and the scarlet steam engine they were boarding for another, titled in big cursive writing, 'The Hogwarts Express'.

Altair looked back at Harry, who had been watching him intently, and sighed.

They were early - the train wasn't scheduled to leave for another quarter hour. Harry had insisted that they try to get there with plenty of time to spare, claiming past experiences of tried punctuality to be firmly planted against him where Hogwarts was concerned.

"Are you sure about this, Altair? Absolutely positive?"

Altair could have groaned, the countless times they'd been over it. "Yeah, I am."

"Because it's not too late - "

"_Harry_ - "

"I bet if we write just _one_ more letter to that stupid, fat giant - "

"Harry, stop it!" Altair cried, as several witches turned to look their way. "I want to bloody go, alright? I _want_ to!"

Harry paused, looking down at his nephew. He just couldn't help it, though. "You're sure?"

Altair didn't reply, just huffed impatiently and kicked at his trunk. "Can we just get on with this, please?"

Harry nodded, looking just a little proud, and far too happy than he should have been that Altair was going away again this year. It was obvious which one of them was more excited about Altair attending the infamously famed Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry - and it was definitely not Altair.

For a moment they stood in an awkward silence, before Harry broke it again with, "Look over there - "

Oh, and now he was _pointing_. _Again_.

"What?" Altair grumbled, sneering as the young Weasel young girl in ratty robes hugged her mother fiercely.

"See that one over there, with the dark hair?"

Altair looked up, following Harry's direction to another.

"What about her?" Altair asked, refusing to stare at the poor girl for more than a second, just to find how his Uncle would answer.

And it was the same as it always was, then - when he got that measuring glitter in his eye, as though Altair were his own little experiment he was to write a report on, analyze and dissect his every breath.

"Don't you think she's pretty, Altair?" Harry asked him, grinning mischievously.

Altair supposed he did, just a little.

"No," he told Harry flatly. "Not at all."

Harry just laughed and grabbed Altair's trunk, as he started to head towards the train. No, wait - right towards the brunette.

_Fuck. _

He _always_ did this sort of thing -

"Oh, I'm so sorry!"

_To Hell you are, _Altair cursed. The girl had stumbled, but Harry caught her arm, at the same time somehow wheeling her around to be facing right in front of Altair. _Bastard. _

"Thanks," the girl said, looking briefly at Harry before her gaze flocked back to Altair, a little confused. "I don't think I know you?"

"No, no, you don't - " Harry had replied, and Altair glared. "This is my nephew, Altair. He's just moved from Beauxbatons this year."

Cho nodded, holding out her hand. "Hi Altair, I'm Cho. What year are you in?"

"Sixth," Altair droned, before Harry could cut in again, but -

His Uncle was just standing there, beaming._ Oh, he'd pay - how he'd pay!_

"Same here," Cho said, and her smile grew a little wider.

Altair took a small step back.

"I suppose I'll see you around, then?" Cho asked him, flushing.

"Whatever," Altair sneered, shoving past his Uncle and up the steps into the train, giggles arising from the group behind him. Altair looked back to see Harry there, still grinning stupidly, but obediently carrying his trunk. They stopped in the first empty compartment they came to.

"See, now that I've introduced you - " Harry began feebly.

"Oh, shut up!" Altair cried, silencing Harry with a scathing hiss. "You are _so_ embarrassing!"

Harry just _laughed_. "You'll thank me one day, honest."

"Wait until I tell Bellatrix what you just did, hmm?" Altair threatened, but that only seemed to further escalate Harry's obnoxious amusement.

Before Harry could embarrass him more, or worse - before the laughter became contagious, Altair snatched the trunk off of his Uncle and pushed him hard out of the compartment, slamming the door shut and quickly locking it with a spell. Heaving relief, Altair sat himself down to relax - but then, faster than should have been humanly possible, Harry had appeared, completely forgiving, back on the platform and standing outside his open window.

"You right there, Altair? All settled?"

Altair didn't respond, giving his best imitation of the deaf.

Harry leaned in from the other side of the window, looking about conspiratorially.

"If you want out, just tell me and I'll come to get you."

"Hmph," Altair mumbled, refusing to meet Harry's eye.

A whistle was blowing, and the last stragglers of the student body were rushing in, blowing kisses, shaking hands and hugging their parents tightly one last time. It made Altair sick.

"Ok, Altair." Harry smiled. "Be safe now!"

_And here it comes - _

"Take as many drugs and have as much sex as you can, but do _not_ under _any_ circumstances - "

Altair slammed the window shut, glaring furiously, just as the train finally pulled away.

Harry was shocked for one moment; then he was grinning, again, and waving happily goodbye, as if there were no company in the world Harry liked better than him. Altair watched from the corner of his eye, pretending all the while to be glaring stubbornly as the floor. The train sped up, Altair's heart thudded tightly in his chest, and slowly the scene on the platform shrunk further and further into nothing.

… … …

An hour of brooding passed and Altair was bored. He didn't have many options he could think of, and he didn't much like any of them; read, eat, or go for a stroll and hopefully bump into an interesting face or two. Finally, almost desperately, he opted for the last.

Stepping outside into the hall, Altair walked ten paces and picked a door at random, shoved it open, and barged into the compartment.

"What the hell is the point of this?" he said loudly by way of greeting.

"Sorry?" one almost pitifully ugly girl asked, with horrifically bushy hair and overlarge front teeth. "The point of what, do you mean?"

"_This_," Altair cried, waving his arms dramatically around the compartment. "A _day long_ train ride? It would take us a second to apparate, or portkey, or floo. But no - no, we're stuck in this stupid, stuffy, horrible little muggle contraption. And what the hell is the point in it all?"

Altair took the pause that befell to look more closely at the compartments occupants; besides the girl there were two other boys - another frightfully ugly one and, just his terrible luck, a damn _Weasel_.

_Augh. _He supposed they were everywhere, with the sheer number of them.

"And who are you lot, then?" Altair asked the group rudely.

"I'm Hermione," said the girl. "Hermione Granger."

"Neville Longbottom," said the first boy.

Altair sneered, and looked quickly over at the redhead, halting him from speaking. "No," he cried. "Don't tell me who you are, I really would rather not know."

Weasel's face crumpled, and Altair feared that his great minds eye might not be able to withhold such horrid ugliness as the boy evoked.

"And what's your name, then?" asked the bucktooth-frizzyhead.

"Altair _Black_," he replied smugly, pausing for the shock to sink in and strike.

"_Black_?" Longbottom repeated dumbly. "Did you say _Black_?"

Altair rolled his eyes.

"Black," Weasel said - and Altair thought he smelt the boy wet himself a little.

"Black as in ... _Black_," arse-long finished lamely.

There was silence in the compartment again, heavy with an upheaval of distraught anticipation.

Altair shrugged, playing confusion. "What do you mean?" he asked, the picture of concern.

"Well," the Weasel began haughtily. "You couldn't be of any relation to Sirius Black, of course. They'd never allow that."

Altair yawned, relieving a thin smile to stretch across his face.

… … …

oooo

… … …

If he didn't hold any inkling of faith in magic, there would have been no way in fucking hell Harry would ever set foot in that ... _boat._ If it even classified as such.

"Come on lad. Get a move on now."

A finger prodded him none too gently in the shoulder, pushing him forward. Harry bunched his fist, felt his fingernails bite into his palm and cut, gathered all of his will to forcibly_ not _turn around and curse the damn motherfucker to hell.

He took a deep breath. And another. Then, swallowing his cares loudly for show, Harry stepped down the rotting, rickety ladder of the pier and into the stupid wooden boat with the first guard, sitting where the wizard gestured. The boat shook, freezing water lapsing over the edge and inside, swilling about his boots. Harry held his breath and clutched tightly onto the seat.

The other two guards descended the ladder unconcerned, paying Harry's misgivings no heed at all, and then they set off, the boat magically propelled through the rising current.

Harry had expected the journey to take a few minutes, tops - but a full two hours passed languidly before any end drew near in sight. Harry hadn't thought that long possible for magical transport, and waste of such precious time seemed ludicrous. Perhaps it was for the island; the horrible, haunted, nasty little island. Or maybe the ride was for the captor's benefit - a last gulp of fresh air, a last farewell to natural life and order.

Harry eyed the guards disdainfully, feeling more than a little seasick.

One sneezed. Another was asleep. The last was picking stupidly at his thumbnail, tongue swapping side from side of his lopsided mouth.

All of them were dry. Harry was drenched - soaked to the bone, numb with cold, and _bored mindless_. The horrid little boat threw him backwards and forwards, up and down, crashing against protests and smashing through the waves. No-one was steering or directing it in any form - it seemed the boat knew the way itself.

Harry thought he might actually vomit, and leaned threateningly over into the direction of the guard to his left.

The one that had poked him.

"You alright there, lad?" the guard in question yelled, wiping the drool of sleep from his thin parched lips. His thundering voice was barely audible over the violent clamor of the ocean, Harry straining to barely hear his rankled words. "You look a bit green, eh!" he laughed, clapping Harry on the back.

_Oh, that did it - _

Harry bent his head, leaned over more and wrenched, spilling his dinner right on top of the guard's lap.

"You little shit!"

The boat rocked further, tipping dangerously.

"Now look Bernard, it wasn't his fault - "

Bernard lunged forward, his wiry arms outstretched, grabbing out to throttle Harry's neck -

_"Bernard!" _

The guard in front of the boat, the one in charge of their near eventless passage, waved his wand again, clearing the half-digested contents of Harry's dinner off his friend's lap. "He'll be getting his due shortly, Bernard, never you mind."

Bernard looked murderous.

Harry laughed.

… … …

Azkaban was beautiful; in a dark, haunting, terrifying sort of way.

The island was bare, no trees or grass or any slender presence of any living thing. There was mud - a lot of mud. And, centered in the wet lumps and gritty bumps of this mud, an old decrepit castle stood tall and proud; stone blocks holding up spiral towers and jagged walls and crumbling tiles of patched roof. There were no windows looking out to sea, to the waves - only passage after passage of rough, barbed stone. It was black from all directions; forms to shapes to outlines.

Harry shivered, stepping from the damned little boat onto another rotted dock - and Dementors came to greet them, swooping down from the mist.

"Away!" a guard called, cleverly brandishing his wand - _as if it would do him any good_.

The Dementors mocked them, laughing; an eerie, silent, heart-torn rumble. They kept a distance from the group then, of which Harry was immeasurably thankful, and they did not attack or deliver reprise. But Harry felt their gaze linger on him - their latest conquest, their toy, the pay for their better deeds and behavior to come.

A tingle stepped down his spine, prickling hair on end. The feeling did not bode well at all.

The guard in charge barked a dozen orders and the quartet set off again, heading up towards the main building. Harry trailed between them, plotting his getaway, imagining various methods to thwart the equitable regime. He didn't care to languish at Azkaban any longer than need be - he'd get Sirius and be off, as quickly and quietly as possible. If no-one ever knew what he did, all for the better.

Arriving at the entrance they entered through a side door and passed the main lobby. The color scheme remained strong, impressionistic - black and black with black on black. Ceiling, floor, walls - all the same in the dry, monotonous tone. Black rails, black sideboards, empty black canvases - and Harry was lost in a moment. The only light fell from brackets, flickering in the groups movement.

Harry figured he would be led to the warden's room first, where he'd then be allocated a cell - and, sure enough, he was right. Three flights of steps and eight corridors on, they dispatched outside of a solemn, closed door: completely unsurprisingly, the dark foreboding black. Harry wished the decorator had been a little more imaginative. The lower two guards, including one contemptuously sulking Bernard, strolled off on their business, to carry on with whatever it was that they did there. The last in royal Azkaban blue knocked quickly on the door, his knuckles wavering.

There was no answer.

"Rick," the guard called shortly, eyeing Harry off with no small amount of unease. "I've got the next one with me."

And a distracted voice emerged from the thick, hard wood - "Good, good, do come in."

The guard opened the door, gesturing Harry in first. It was an office - a desk, a chair, a painting and a cactus - all were the same ambiguous _black_. The warden, though - he was fat, bald and glistening baby pink with a thinning blond comb-over. Harry was reminded instantly of Dudley, and the tasty bacon he'd fed his younger counterpart the week before. He sneered, leering trouble and unpleasantness.

"Jones, is it?" the warden asked Harry.

Harry nodded once, watching the man scan a report, make a scribbled note and sign, date, tick. Methodically practiced, dull.

"Right, then, J Block will do fine for you."

The guard accepted a hefty stack of papers, nodded his dismissal and began to leave, presuming Harry behind him - but Harry had stopped, a large sheet of parchment catching his attention. It was a map, sitting crumpled on the warden's old black desk - the biggest, most intricately detailed map Harry had ever laid eyes on. And not of the grounds, or the castle - but lists and lists - names piled on names in no specific pattern or structure.

Azkaban was a maze; a puzzle of chastened cribs for lawbreakers and beasts.

And Harry just _knew_ if he were to have any hope of finding Sirius at all that he simply _had_ to have it. There was no way he could memorize the map so fast, not a chance for him to seek out Sirius' obliging name. And so Harry acted, in two fell swoops -

His wand rose into his palm; _swoosh, blam. _The warden was dead, the guard incapacitated.

And the cactus was black no more - graced in a wet, sticky, slowly dripping red.

Harry grabbed the map, transfigured his cloak to what it had been before, and he _ran_.

Ran and ran and ran - back down the hall, a left and then a right, a right and then a left.

But Azkaban followed, Azkaban _knew_.

And, somehow, the Dementors did too.

A siren went off, shrieking down the building. The candles strung in brackets at every turn buzzed, casting light in an eerie filtered green. And back in England, on an Auror's grubby desk at the Ministry of Magic, a circuiting bleep sped off from a little golden dream-catcher, filling the office in bounds of concern. The Department Head was alerted of an escape.

Harry seethed, grinding his teeth. He stopped halfway up a tower, not quite sure where his flight had led him. He turned back, lifted his wand, and began to set traps; to incarcerate, disembowel and behead. Deadly wards and ill-fated tricks and anything to deceive them, to hide him.

The Dementors were closing in.

… … …

_"I'm not my father, Sirius. You always forget." _

… … …

B, B ... _Black_.

There were voices behind him; torturous echoes of his long past. The Dementors had realized, had known the threat he posed and come in numbers plenty - and his wards wouldn't last, not for long. Not against that many - a bloody fucking _army_.

F3, F5. And there it was - F7. _At last. _

He raced down the hall, reached for the handle, shoved it down and leant in - but the door wouldn't budge.

Harry blinked. Cursed. Punched and kicked. His fist was bloody, his foot pounded; a tingling ache resonating his heartbeat.

The door was plain and bare, paint peeling and doused in muck and scratches, chips and grates. There was a small open window in the top section, barricaded with thick black bars. And locks, in every form, _everywhere_; keyholes, catches, chains, bolts. The biggest bloody padlock Harry wondered if to ever have been created.

_Fuck_ -

This was a prisoner to receive the death call. This was a door never meant to be opened.

Hurried footsteps, running towards him. Ten? Twenty? They were coming. And coming. And coming.

Close. Closer.

Harry didn't think, couldn't think._ There wasn't time._ He raised his arm, aimed his wand - _bang! _

The door creaked, protested, and refused to bend.

Harry growled, hissed, lashing out a web of magic. He shoved his wand deep into the keyhole of the padlock, his tempter flaring, and -

BAM. The door swung open.

"Sirius?" Harry called, igniting the cell in light, bathing the walls of stone with shadow. "Get up, get up, we've got to go - "

_There wasn't time._

He paused. Froze. And there she was, sitting on the floor, knees tucked lightly under her arms.

Bellatrix Lestrange. Bellatrix-Bloody-_Black_. She looked up, her eyes a craze; surprised, hopeful, then grinning. Her hair was a rats nest. She was frightfully thin, her eyes dancing, nails like claws. Feral. Primitive. Surreal. A _nightmare_.

_There wasn't bloody time!_

"Oh, bugger."

… … …

_"Not a chance in hell, Potter." _

_"Abso-fucking-lutely out of your fucking mind you were, Bella." _

_He laughed, mocking. _

_She only scowled. _

… … …

"You can't just _leave_ me here!"

"Why the hell not?"

She was following him, a shadow on his shadow, half a step behind his every turn, every move, every breath.

"Who are you?" she asked again, tugging on his robe. "Didn't you come to rescue me?"

"No, I didn't," Harry snapped, pushing her away.

He'd got it wrong. He'd fucked up _again_, and he _had _to find Sirius to get the hell out of there.

Bellatrix stumbled back, tripped on her own ratty moth-eaten robe and fell, landing with _thump_ on the sharp stone floor.

Harry stopped, still glaring forward, sending failed spell after failed spell, dismally trying to locate the door that still stood between himself and his Godfather. Nothing worked; no jinx, no curse - no spell in earthly creation. Azkaban forbid it, repelling his demand. Her domain, her rules.

"I don't recognize you," Bellatrix told him, sitting up, sizing him. "Are you one of _His_? A Death Eater?"

"Fuck no."

The words had hardly left his mouth before he realized, knowing too well too late what she was likely to do next, but then Harry was already falling, landing hard on the ground beside her. Bellatrix was wrapped around his legs, her thin arms flailing, making a mad dash for the wand still grasped tightly in his hand. They fought like children, dirty and mean, scrambling over one another till a victor would arise.

Harry kicked her off roughly, a boot crashing down onto her ribcage and _cracking_.

Pain, agony; Bella felt nothing.

Harry rolled onto his stomach, heaving himself up from the ground on strained arms. He spat blood, nursing his jaw. And Bellatrix was back, again, lunging forward on top of him, pulling his hair angrily from his scalp. Harry swore, rolling to his side to crush her smaller frame. He waited, panting, his wand pointed over his shoulder and pressed up against her throat.

"Give it up, Bellatrix."

She heaved defeat - "Alright."

He should have known better. He _did_ know better. But he'd already began to stand, moving to lean tiredly against the wall opposite, and her tiny arms had sneaked around his chest, her fists clawing at his hand, at his wand.

"Fuck off!" Harry yelled, and then he lost his bridged temper and cursed her - a stinging hex, a cutting hex, a hex he rather wished he'd never known, never learnt, never cast.

And Harry swayed, standing over her form convulsing miserably on the floor.

She moaned. She whimpered. He'd never seen her look like such utter _shit._

"Bloody hell, Bella, when will you ever let up?" he snarled furiously. "I just bloody freed you, can't you piss off by yourself? I'm doing you a bloody favor, aren't I?"

"I'm sorry," she slurred, breathing hard.

She didn't mean it. He didn't believe it.

Harry knelt down, cursing her again and healing her all the same. _He wasn't sure why_. He couldn't quite understand _why_ he hadn't shut the bloody cell door in her face and left her in the damned cell to die.

_Pity. Shame. _

Regrets?

Holding his wand in plain view, he strapped it carefully back into its place under a band on his wrist.

"Where's my husband?" she asked, bemused.

Harry shrugged. "Don't know, don't give a shit. You could both rot here for all eternity for all I care."

"Shut up!" she struggled, spitting at him.

Harry gripped her shoulders tightly, shaking her, warning her. "Go away Bellatrix. We're of no use to each other."

"What's your _name_?" she retorted arrogantly. "Wont you help me find my husband?"

Harry shook his head, no.

"But I have money," Bella grinned. "I can repay you in plenty, my friend."

"_No_," Harry snorted. "I'd rather fuck my own mothe - "

And Bellatrix slapped him across the face, _hard_.

Harry tightened his grip. "Stop it now, or I swear - "

"_Shut it_," Bella hissed, fighting in his grasp, scratching and biting and kicking out viciously. And then Harry heard it too - and he dropped her, cursing under his breath, letting Bella roll away and leap back to her feet. Harry paused, held his breath - _not again_.

Footsteps. Cries. Yelps of pain and painful yells of fury.

The traps were going off. _He was trapped. _

And they were coming. Close. Closer. _Again. _

Harry growled, turning back up the corridor.

_Where the hell could he be? _

_There wasn't time. There was never any bloody time! _

He counted from three.

Bellatrix was gone, fleeing back towards the Dementors. _Idiot._

Voices, shouts - they'd found something. A trace to snatch. They were coming and coming and coming.

_Two. _

Harry closed his eyes, summoning his magic. He concentrated on the doors and the locks; the fabric holding the prisoners from the hallway. Every sound was amplified in his eardrums. Every scent was overpowering. Every taste burned hotly on the tip of his tongue; tingling, twisting, taunting. The power grew to a suffocating degree, growing and forever growing, pulling angrily at his gut and eroding from his every pore, corrupting and exploding and -

_One. _

Magic - unrestrained, uncontrolled. Savage and desperate and _fighting_.

Azkaban shook.

Azkaban cracked.

Azkaban broke and tore and cried and stung.

All the lights went out. Deathly black surpassed. The blast knocked Harry back, throwing him down the hall where Bellatrix had run. And every door, every cell to have caged a person on the isle, cluttered and rattled and - stretched to Harry's will - let loose, opening.

Freedom. Liberty.

_Pandemonium. _

The Dementors _screamed_; piercing, grating and terrible.

Time slowed. Comprehension dawned. And the Prisoner's of Azkaban jumped up and fled.

Murderers, rapists, thieves -

Sirens blasted louder and louder through the castle and the flocks of Auror's finally made their appearance known, apparating and portkeying as Azkaban's giving collapsed, arriving in the lobby and spreading to every outlet, covering all angles and corroding each surface.

Thin, shriveled and decayed - the prisoners crept out. They headed past him, back the way Harry had come - to the shrieking onslaught of Dementors, the terrified guards, the bloody Ministry Officials.

_Fools. _

Harry felt stretched, hanged, lifeless; the spirit sucked out of him like no Dementor could. He was exhausted. Harry made no move to stop those running past, ignoring their struggles and glee, content to rest in the center of the dark hallway unnoticed.

_Let them die, let them pay. Let them find peace at last in death and _Hell

Let_ them_ be the ones to fight _him_ a way out.

So Harry simply lay there, watching, recollecting himself and his bearings. He waited until the last had peeked through his open cell door in the block, stumbled out and hobbled down the hall, following in the swarms of stupidity with countless imbecilic others.

And it was then that Harry knew - knew exactly which cell in the ridiculously impossible maze that Sirius occupied. It was the only one with a closed door. The only one no-one had run from. The one that had been right next to Bellatrix's all along - B. Black. Black.

_Duh. _

Harry cursed.

Walking slowly back up the hall, leaving the damn useless map on the floor, Harry prepared himself - for one who couldn't know or recognize his own familiarity, one with whom he shared no conversations, no adventures, no time or memory. Harry prepared himself - for exactly what he knew he'd find and have to say, do. _Lie. _

"Sirius?" he called, reaching the door.

He could hear fighting below them as another battle rang. Dark magic filled the air, humid and more thickly suffocating. It stunk, worse ever than before, and Harry _hurt._

Harry closed his eyes, cursed again and pulled the door open, standing in the archway. "Sirius?"

"Is that - what?"

His voice was broken, caked in years unused. Disbelief. Haunted uncertainty.

_Was he dreaming? Was he dead? _

"James?" Sirius scrambled to his feet, slowly stepping forward towards Harry. "Is that you, James?"

He strung a grubby hand out, feeling for Harry's face; tracing his nose, his bloody lips, his throbbing temple, his cheek. Harry reached an arm around Sirius' bony shoulder, peeling him in to give the other man a one-armed hug. For his own benefit or Sirius' he wasn't sure.

"I'm so sorry," Sirius whispered, trembling.

"So am I."

Harry felt a sob rack his Godfathers body, and sent a quick cheering charm riveting into his stomach.

Time. Time. _Tergum Rursus - _they had to go.

"Come on, Sirius. Let's get you out of here."

… … …

_Uncle Harry was his favorite, his first best friend. _

_But he was never home anymore, constantly off on his monumental 'scavenger hunt', so his Uncle Sirius called it, and Altair wasn't allowed to begrudge him the absence - it was vastly important, he was told. Repeatedly. Nor was Altair wasn't allowed to follow, if he'd even wanted to - which he didn't, particularly. It was _cold.

… … …

The prisoner's were losing miserably, disastrously and devastatingly outnumbered.

It might have been accounted to their years of _unfortunate_ containment, forgotten spells or time too long without speech and rationality, logic, intellectual influence and inspiration. Anyone who'd ever spent even the smallest amount of time on the island was the same - mad as a hatter. Or it might have been that they had no wands, no means to properly source their relishing rage.

When Harry and Sirius made it down to the entrance hall the battle was already predictably lost, a last stand in mighty full swing. More than most of the stragglers cared only for themselves then, making bold dashes out of doors, windows, blasted holes in the once-impenetrable walls of black stone. Quite a few made it outside to apparate safely away.

The Auror's held no compassion, no mercy - not for the ones they worked to keep away, hold _there._

Harry flicked his wand, dredging up the last skimped reserves of his magic to send a blanket of invisibility over himself and his Godfather.

And together they calmly walked out, stepping right between the massacre.

Outside the rain had stopped - it was a new day, a new dawn.

"Hold on a moment," Sirius began, eyes widening as he looked Harry up and down in the morning light. "You're not - "

… … …

_"It's ridiculous, Harry. You're being bloody _ridiculous_."_

_"He's fifthteen - he's old enough to decide this for himself."_

_"Fifthteen? What the hell is_ fifthteen_! He needs guidance, Harry. He needs bloody _discipline_."_

… … …

It was past nine when they got back, and little Harry was waiting for them.

"Who's this?" he asked the older Harry suspiciously, perched on the edge of his seat at the kitchen table.

Harry grinned, in what he thought was a brightly reassuring way at his younger self, gesturing for Sirius to sit down as well.

"What would you like for breakfast, Harry?" Harry asked instead, ignoring the question and the answer he didn't really need, turning around to rummage in the cupboard. Usually he'd buy their food already made, as Harry absolutely loathed to cook, but that would take more time and Sirius would undoubtedly be starving -

"Who are you?" the little Harry asked again, redirecting his query to Sirius himself.

Sirius shrugged, frowning at the small boy. He looked rather adorable; floppy black hair, large round eyes - but there was something a bit off, not quite right about the lad -

"Well?" little Harry asked him again, puffing up impatiently. "Who the hell are you?"

"Harry!" Harry cried, raising an eyebrow. "What have I said about using that language?"

The younger Harry rolled his eyes, probing Sirius in the arm.

"You're terribly scrawny," he observed, squinting at the Azkaban crest on Sirius' mangled robe. "Don't you like chocolate?"

Sirius shrugged again. "I don't remember," he answered quietly.

"What are you doing here?" the little Harry asked, perplexed. He didn't think he much liked the man at all - he smelt just _awful_.

"I don't know," Sirius replied. "What _am_ I doing here?"

The question was rhetorical.

"I don't know," the younger Harry said, his voice solemn. "You can leave if you'd like."

"Harry," the older Harry scolded gently, turning back to the table with a morning feast levitated in tow. He sent the heaped dishes flying to their respective placements, overfilled glasses crashing down and frothing. Little Harry dug in, completely forgetting their guest, but Sirius simply sat there, unable to soak up all that had happened in the past half-hour. Had it only been that long?

Harry sat down next to him, tapping his shoulder lightly.

"Sirius," he said, catching the other man's attention. "I'd like you to meet your Godson, Harry. Harry Potter."

Sirius shook his head. "I don't understand."

Harry grinned again, gesturing to his plate of buttery toast and slightly burnt omelet. "That's alright. You will."

"Is he staying?" the younger Harry asked between big mouthfuls, looking up from his plate to stare inquisitively at his Uncle.

"If he'd like," Harry said. "I'd like it, though, if he did. Wouldn't you?"

Little Harry shook his head. He loved his new life - and he didn't want it to change, not in the slightest.

"But this is your Uncle Sirius," his Uncle Harry explained. "He'll be loads of fun, won't you Sirius?"

Two sets of green eyes turned expectantly in his direction - Sirius floundered, nodding hesitantly.

The younger Harry was not fooled. Not at all. He waved a hand in front of his nose, abandoning the rest of his breakfast.

"He smells," the little Harry told the bigger Harry wisely.

"That's alright," Harry said. "As soon as he finishes eating he'll go upstairs and have a bath. A very long one - and a shave. How about that?"

Little Harry pouted.

"Don't you want another Uncle?"

"I've already got two," the younger Harry said. "Isn't that enough?"

"Uncle Vernon doesn't count," Harry told him stiffly. "He's gone, forever. He exists now only in your mind. Sirius can be his replacement - but a _good_ replacement, a much better one."

The younger Harry grumbled, disinclined to believe that this might be the first time in the short week he'd stayed with his new Uncle that he might not get his way. He didn't like that notion, and he didn't like the cause of it. "I don't like him," he whined.

There was an awkward silence, Harry a bit unsure of how to fix the delicately declining relations, until -

"I don't like you either," Sirius admitted gruffly, raising an eyebrow at the little boy.

Harry glared.

Sirius glared back.

The older Harry frowned. "That's not right - you _should_ like each other."

"_Why_ should I?" his younger self countered angrily.

"I bet you will, in time," Harry said. "Both of you will - just give it a chance? Ok?"

Little Harry looked to be considering. Almost. "If he has a bath - "

"Sirius?" the older Harry asked, interrupting the tirade. "Will you give it a go?"

Sirius looked back at the younger Harry, who was pulling nasty faces at him behind his serviette. He grunted.

Harry sighed, finally relaxing, hoping at last that it all could fall easily into place from here on in, but then -

"What's that noise?" little Harry asked.

"What noise?" Sirius jumped, eyeing the empty fireplace.

"That one - "

"What?"

Harry waved a hand, quieting the two.

And the trio paused, frozen in their positions, straining to make out any sort of unnatural noise, any sound that didn't quite belong. And just as the older Harry was about to give up, rolling his eyes and sniggering, he heard it too - they all did.

Someone was knocking at the door.

… … …

oooo

… … …

Returning to his compartment, quite contemptuously sure half the student population now hated him as they should, Altair was surprised to find a girl sitting in his seat. She wasn't much to look at; long, dirty blonde hair and creepy bug-eyes.

"You're in my seat," Altair told her, his voice a little strangled.

"Oh?" bug-eyes didn't look up, still intent on her stupid magazine. He twisted his head sideways, reading off the cover - _the Quibbler_. Altair figured that would be reason enough why she had no friends, and was sitting alone in _his _compartment.

Grunting, Altair sat opposite and stared at her. The blonde didn't seem to notice, and that only pissed him off more and more.

"So," Altair said, glaring.

"So?" the girl replied, not looking up from _the Quibbler_.

Altair crossed him arms against his chest, huffing.

"You're not from Hogwarts," bug-eyes stated absentmindedly.

"No," Altair sniffed, still gazing at her indignantly, his own superiority obvious. "I used to attend Beauxbatons."

"Oh, really?" The girl brightened considerably, leaning forward and abandoning at last her damned magazine. "What do you mean, used to? Are you transferring?"

"Not really, no," Altair muttered.

"Then ... ?" she floundered for a moment, waiting for Altair to continue.

"It's really none of your business," he sneered, leering at her.

"Alright," bug-eyes said, sitting back and returning to _the Quibbler_. Altair resumed his brooding.

It took some courage, and came at quite a bit of personal loss, but after some time Altair managed to get it out.

"Can I borrow that when you're done?"

The girl nodded, and they ignored each other in companionable silence for the rest of the journey.

It was dark before the compartment door slid open again, and Altair figured they _must_ be close to the school. Lunch had come and gone, and Altair had changed and waited straight-backed in his new school robes for quite some time before he was told they still had a fair way to go.

"Hey, Altair."

What was it again? Cheese ... Charcoal ... Chew ... Cho.

"Cho?" Altair tried.

Cho smiled, the prefect badge on her chest he hadn't noticed before glistened importantly. "First years ride in boats across the lake. I've been instructed to let you know to join them."

Altair snorted. "Only first years? Then how do the rest of you - "

" - carriages - "

"Well," Altair huffed. "I'm not going in a dinky little boat with a bunch of sniveling first years!"

"But you have to - "

"No," Altair told her. "I refuse."

Cho rolled her eyes and left, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

When the train finally pulled to a stop Altair hopped out and followed Luna - the girl, as he'd finally asked for her name, that he'd grudgingly shared his compartment with. It was pitch black outside, and Altair could hardly see a damn thing.

The carriages were waiting for them.

Students bustling around them avoided Luna like the plague, leaving a wide berth of at least a meter in all occasions. Believing this was perfect for his own cause, Altair adamantly decided that it would be in both of their best interests to stick close together. With this in mind, he climbed up after her into the last carriage. She stared at him as if he were mad. Altair worried that he might be.

It was a short trip from the carriages to the castle. Altair didn't think much of Hogwarts, when he first laid eyes on it. But then again, Altair never really thought much of anything.

He could see the lake where the first years were undoubtedly sailing in from, the large sheet of water rippled and shining. The castle was massive, built up from towers on towers in old, crumbling stone. Students tumbled from the carriages, heading down a passageway. Altair trailed a little behind Luna, careful to always keep the blonde in sight. They walked over long, damp grass and up a series of big, stone steps. Past the huge, oak front door and they were inside the entrance hall. Then along a corridor and through to the Great Hall, where they dined.

There were five tables; one raised on a dais for the teachers, and the four others lined in rows across from the first for the students.

Altair made to sit next to Luna, but she stopped him.

"No, Altair, you should sit over there," Luna said, gesturing to the table across from hers.

"Why?" he asked.

_Oh, if that were the Hufflepuff's Harry had spoken of before - she had better not be insinuating - _

"Oh, no reason, really." Luna smiled. "Only I think you'd fit in well there. That table's most accepting of every oddball, see?"

"They like oddballs, eh? Then why aren't you with them?" Altair could have throttled her. It _was_ the Hufflepuff's, then.

Well, fuck that.

"It's Altair, right?" a voice behind him asked.

Altair spun around. "Yeah?"

The girl smiled - they all did a lot of that here. "Couldn't help but overhear," she said, gushing.

"Oh, I bet you couldn't," Altair simpered.

"Well, I'm a Hufflepuff," she explained - Altair could have guessed as much, "and I know we'd all be more than happy for you to join us."

Before Altair could protest she'd grabbed his arm, and was escorting him away from Luna and on towards the Puffs. Luna waved a cheery goodriddance.

_Damn it. _

"I'm Susan, by the way," the girl introduced herself.

"Lovely to make your acquaintance, the pleasure is all mine!" Altair said snottily, but his sarcasm was lost.

"Oh, thanks!"

Susan sat down square in the middle of the Hufflepuff table, pulling Altair down with her.

_Way to make a cool impression. _But Altair amended he would do the most he could to aid the dire straight; to be outcasted by the outcasts in lightening speed.

"Is this the house filled with Death Eater spawn?" he asked the table at large.

"No," Susan replied carefully, her voice a little stiff.

"Damn. And what's up with the ceiling?" Altair asked a boy to his left. "Couldn't the school Council afford to get a roof?"

"It's _enchanted_ to look like the sky outside," the boy told him calmly.

"Oh, how dull." Altair yawned again. "But how do you know that's really it? Oh yes, 'it's _enchanted_ to look like the sky outside' ... How is there any difference between that and there really being no separation from us, in here, and all that out there? There's no way you could actually tell, is there?"

Other students sitting around him exchanged raised eyebrows and insulted gapes.

"When are we eating?"

"When the sorting is over," another answered shortly.

Altair didn't want to know what the hell 'the sorting' was - he really didn't care.

The chatter stopped around them and Altair tuned out, playing with the knife in front of his empty plate. Dimly he was aware of some ear-piercingly awful racket - it might have been a song - and was brought to again when his own name caught his attention, as it was want to do -

"Mr Black? Is an Altair Black present?"

The teacher at the front was calling to him.

Altair groaned, stood from the bench and sauntered over to her, the eyes of the entire school following him in horror, traumatized whispers breaking out amongst blatant yelps of fear.

_"Black, did she say?" _

_"Not one of _the_ Blacks? Surely that can't be right - " _

_"All the Blacks are mad, everyone knows that - "_

_"Vicious, they are, the lot of them." _

_" - sided with You Know Who, you know! Every single one of them!" _

It had been the same with his old school, and Altair was quite used to it. It would have been amusing, really, if not that it was more so annoying.

_If only they really knew Sirius ..._

His eyes caught on Cho's, as she smiled at him encouragingly. And he could see that bushy-headed bucktoothed girl, on the table next to hers, whispering to an even uglier redhead - the littlest Weasel - on her right. Then he'd reached the teacher, who was staring at him with quite a bit of conflicted reprimanding condolence. Altair supposed it had been her with whom Harry had shared their ... circumstances. She drew him to the side, next to where a little stool stood with a hideous old hat atop of it.

"You're Altair Black, are you?" she asked, quietly enough that no-one but the persons on the teacher's table could hear.

Altair nodded.

"Why weren't you on one of the boats, then? Didn't you get the message?"

Altair frowned, feigning ignorance. "Sorry," he said, letting a small amount of the well learnt French accent mingle in his English.

Within that moment the teacher's demur changed to understanding, and she pointed simply at the stool, speaking to him like a simpleton.

"Well go on then dear, just have a seat and try the hat on."

Altair did as she said, though not without a shudder as the haggled old hat rested over his eyes, crushing his hair.

And then a voice rang in his mind, and Altair knew it was the stupid hat -

_Hmm. This is strange. Rather strange indeed. _

"Oh?" Altair prodded, not at all liking the hat's tone, nor the word 'strange' being implied with any such tainting link to himself. "What's strange?"

_Why you are, my boy! No, don't deny it. _

Altair seethed.

_Strange, yes ... but that needn't matter. Difficult, too. Very difficult. Not a bad mind, I see. Plenty of courage. A large thirst to prove yourself, also - now that's interesting. Very interesting, very difficult. And talent, dear Merlin, is there ever talent! _

"Will you just hurry up already?" Altair whined.

And then the stupid old hat thundered out, for the whole bloody hall to hear it -

**...pppqqq...**

_A/N: And there it is, pretties. Is that _plot _I smell? I think it might be, at long last. Hurrah. _

_I might add that this is not in chronological order, if you haven't yet noticed, as most time-travel fics are adverse to being. I am skipping over a lot, and I know I am, but rest assured most of those seemingly glaring plot holes (like the older!Harry/Bella, for example) will be resolved eventually. If you're kinda enjoying this, I might also recommend you go find Amerision's 'Losing Hope', which this is loosely based and inspired from. It can be found from my favorites list, or off the search engine. _

_Anyway, as far as pairings for little!Harry go, I'm leaning on Harry/Cho, Harry/girl!Blaise or Harry/Luna. I don't think it's that important, but do let me know if you think they all suck. And, of course, I do most sincerely apologize for the cliffy. Any guesses at which house younger!Harry's in? sniggers_

_Thanks for reading, as always. Reviews are wonderful. _

_xxoo_


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